


The Thing About Pain is, It Demands To Be Felt

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [7]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, second part to my last fic yall, spots pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13737549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Race and Spot fight, through a different set of eyes (pt 2 of 3)





	The Thing About Pain is, It Demands To Be Felt

**Author's Note:**

> The part 2 that i sorta kinda didn't plan for but was really necessary because Conflict Resolution

_ “Get out.” _

Truly, Spot regretted it as soon as he said it, but he didn’t take it back. Any form of regret caught in his throat before he could formulate it into any coherent thought. 

He wanted to hurt when he lost control like this. Hurt himself or someone else, and that fact had left him alone many times before.

But now, the only way he’d be able to stop himself from creating any more damage was to have Race leave. And he understood that, but through the tight anger in his chest he knew that intent didn’t shine through his words 

But intent aside, Race left, taking the familiar warmth of the apartment with him. The door shut behind him with a lack of vigor that told Spot everything he needed to know.

Race had shut himself off, not just from himself, but from Spot. That realization stuck in his chest like a piece of glass, and he could feel the blood leaking throughout his senses until they were all dripping with angry, bitter regret.

* * *

 

_ Race’s sharp look of desperation slashed at Spot. He could feel waves of fear that melded together to form pity coming off of Race. Fuck pity. _

_ “Stop acting like this is all my fucking fault!”  _

_ The words exploded from him before he had a chance to filter through them, and he felt his decency and control slipping through his shaking fingers. _

_ “Nobody said it was your fault Spot!” Race yelled, visibly spiraling, “Stop with this victim bullshit! I’m  _ sick _ of it!” _

* * *

 

The explosiveness of the collision between his fist and the refrigerator reverberated throughout the apartment. 

An animalistic yell escaped his rapidly closing throat and his knuckles screamed in protest as he pulled away.

“Fuck.”

He let himself lean against the wall and hang his head. Wallowing in self pity wasn’t really his style but the knot of old tied anger in his chest was starting to loosen and the previously denied feeling of regret hit him at once.

That’s why he had to hit something. As long as he could remember, the only time he fought or yelled or caused  _ pain _ , it was in times like this. When he was coming down and viewing the carnage, emotional or physical.

Now, he could feel the deep wound cutting into him and he wished that it’d been physical. Wished Race had taken a shot at him and given him something tangible to see, to feel, that he could watch heal. 

But Race had never been able to do that. Ever since the day they met he refused to lay a hand on Spot that wasn’t gentle and laced with care.

Spot hated that he allowed himself to forget that.

* * *

 

_ He could feel a glint of betrayal after Race said that, that wasn’t fair and he didn’t fucking need to take it. _

_ “You’re sick of it? For the last week you’ve been sulking like I’ve been going around fucking everything that moves. Stop treating me like an asshole and maybe I wouldn’t act like one.”   _

_ He heard his the snarl in his voice and didn’t fight it. _

_ Race looked like he’d taken a step back without moving, the subtlety of the gesture nearly brought a scream to his throat. _

* * *

 

One of his knuckles had started bleeding. He hadn’t noticed until he felt the blood seeping through his shirt. The idea of wrapping his hand made his head hurt so instead he tangled it into his t-shirt and waited for the sluggish bleeding to stop.

It took about five minutes for him to realize he was wearing Race’s shirt. 

For some reason seeing his blood all over the stupid Rolling Stones logo was what pierced through layers of stony anger and crystallized fear.

If he was being completely honest he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. It felt wrong to have tears slip down his face that weren’t immediately following the crack of a fist colliding with his skull.

But the more he thought about Race walking alone and his blood staining his shirt though, the faster they came until sobs started coming through brokenly and choked with shame.

The sound of his own erratic breathing was the only thing he could hear in the goddamn apartment and now that he’d started crying it was like a floodgate had opened and all the times he hadn’t been able to cry hit him at once. 

The memory of being kicked out by a drunk who dared to call himself a father contorted into years of foster homes and social workers and  _ fear. _ Hearing the door to his room open and catching sight of a scrawny kid who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in years. 

Watching that kid get his ass kicked for counting cards and walking back to Spot with a split lip and a stupid smile on his face because he’d pocketed his cheated money anyway.

Breaking the nose of the kid who’d dared to lay a hand on Race even if he’d bounced back far more quickly than Spot had ever been able to.

Every bad memory was chased with a bright one of his best friend who was probably crying on the goddamn subway right now  _ alone _ because his best friend had kicked him while he was down.

Crying might have been something he wasn’t familiar with, but the shame that clogged his senses wasn’t.

* * *

 

_ “How the hell was I supposed to know where you were huh?”  _

_ That wasn’t fair. “What’s that supposed to mean?” _

_ Race’s shaky step back when Spot moved forward almost broke his heart because he would never hurt him, never, never, never. _

_ “It means that you could have been dead in a fucking alley somewhere.”  _

_ Hurt and betrayal and a complete loss of control was scattering his sense of logic now and he was getting past the point of no return. “That’s not what you meant Race, don’t lie.” _

* * *

 

He really hadn’t planned on being gone for as long as he was, the whole trip was suppose to take a day, less even, if he was fast. 

He’s gotten the phone call a week earlier that he’d have to go into Manhattan and pick out his old man in a line up. Apparently he’d held up a gas station and gotten himself arrested, the guy who he held up knew his Dad’s voice but they needed him to confirm since he’d worn a mask. 

Truly, he should have told Race about all this before he left, but he didn’t think that once he got to the station he’d get clocked through the bars of a holding cell and called a faggot by the man who’d broken his wrist when he was eight and forgot to shut his bedroom window.

Because if he had told Race, he might have had someone with him when he stumbled into the nearest dive bar and drowned out his childhood fears in shitty rum. Might have had someone drag his dumbass home once he got cut off and kicked out onto the street at one o’clock in the morning in a neighborhood he didn’t know.

But no one was there when he typed out a text with blurry eyes and sluggish movements to his boyfriend who’d been trying to call him all day with no success and then his phone was dying and he was sleeping at a friend’s at his mind was gone.

And he didn’t tell Race any of that, any of what happened because it was his burden to carry and he wasn’t dragging anyone down with him. Especially not Race.

* * *

 

_ Spot’s ears were ringing too much to process the severity of the silence that Race finally broke.  _

_ “If it wasn’t something bad than you would have told me Spot, you would have fucking called me instead of running away.” _

_ As he learned many times over in dark rooms and freezing alleyways, when there’s an opening you take it. And he did. _

_ “You wanna talk about running away?” There was no way that he had control over his mouth now because all he could see was Race receding into himself as he yelled awful, awful things, “You don’t talk to me about shit, you just shut the fuck up and let everyone pity you because you want the attention.” _

_ He let out a ragged breath and stared at Race, or the hollow version of Race that had transformed in front of him, and he saw nothing. _

* * *

 

Spot nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone started buzzing on the table in front of him. If it had been any other night he might have ignored it but he couldn’t stand the broken silence in the apartment for much longer. 

“Hello?”

_ “Spot I’m going to fucking kill you I swear to god.” _

Yeah he probably deserved that. Screwing his eyes shut he tried to keep the emotion out of his voice when he responded. “I know I fucked up Jack.”

“ _ No shit Spot, I’ve been trying to get a hold of Race for the last hour because he called me from the fucking street after you  _ kicked him out.”

“I’m sorry.”

The crack in his voice was sincere and probably jarring because Jack shut up on the other end of the line while Spot tried to control his growingly erratic breathing. “I-I’m gonna go look for him okay? He’s probably on the subway or something and I-”

_ “I don’t think that’s a good idea for you right now,”  _ Jack said, “ _ Davey’s looking for him right now anyway okay?” _

Normally the mothering tone would have driven Spot up the wall but he really needed it right now. “Yeah, can you call me when you get a hold of him?”

_ “Yeah Spot.” _

Apparently he remained silent for long enough that Jack figured they were done, and he hung up.

* * *

 

_ “Fuck you Spot.” _

* * *

 

After about half an hour of his hand throbbing Spot finally gave in and bandaged it. Nothing had started to bruise, there was just a lot of swelling, so he figured he didn’t need to get it looked at. 

The cut on his knuckle was shallow enough, the stinging of rubbing alcohol managed to steady him while he wrapped it gingerly. 

He figured that this was why he liked to hit things or people when he felt too much. You can clean a cut and bandage it and there’s a sense of finality to it. It makes the problem feel solved, the damage is fixed, and there’s no proof that it even happened after a while.

Emotions freaked him out because you couldn’t do that. Those needed to be worked through, or in his case buried or else they fester and ruin you like they were ruining Spot right now.

A loud ring sounded from the kitchen and he tried to steady his shaking hands as he went to check the notification.

It was from Jack:

_ ‘Race’s here, he’s okay, i think he’s gonna crash here’ _

He tore out of the house so fast he didn’t have time to think about how exactly he planned on getting into Jack’s apartment  at this time of night, but right now it didn’t matter.

* * *

 

_ He needed to get out, or have Race get out because everything was getting smaller and crushing in on him from the inside out and he just needed something to leave and give him space to breath. _

_ And impulsively he tried to verbalize that. _

_ “Get out.” _

* * *

 

At the last second he moved his hand away from the buzzer. Jack and Race were probably asleep and he didn’t want to wake them, well one of them, sooner than he had to. 

The only other option was the fire escape and as much as his sore hand protested, he walked toward it and pulled the ladder down.

He fucked up, yeah, and now he had to get his house in order.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked this one!! There's gonna be a final part 3 to wrap this all up, so that should be up soon!!


End file.
